Miss Finch did not visit the camp the following day, but Jack hadn’t expected her. She’d taken a risk coming out last night and might well feel she must draw back. He didn’t think she’d been caught. The silent darkness of Winstead Hall as she slipped in had promised safety.
Jack paused in his circuit of the rabbit snares. That last moment, before she’d gone inside, burned in his memory. After an evening of holding her in his arms as they danced, he’d been desperate to kiss her. And he dared to think she’d wanted the same. The yearning had vibrated between them there in the fragrant dimness. It set him afire even now. Stepping back had taken every bit of his honor and resolution.
The problem was: He wasn’t who she thought he was.
Jack moved on through the meadow. As they grew closer, it became more important that he tell her the truth. But whenever he came near to confessing, he heard her declaring he was nothing whatsoever like an earl. Approvingly. Happily. The phrase, and the tone, had been nothing like his great-grandmother’s sour judgment. The girl he…greatly admired was delighted that he was not the titled nobleman he actually was. In name, if not essence.
If ever a fellow was in a cleft stick.
He needed to tell Miss Harriet Finch the truth before things went any further. And he did wish to go further. How far, he wasn’t yet certain. But what would she think of him when she knew? Would her attitude change? She spoke of the nobility with such contempt. Worse, the truth would spread. There’d be no hiding once he spoke, and very likely, Lady Wilton would rush up here to “lick him into shape” and push him into the society he was assured would disdain him. That prospect made him shudder. He’d gone to great lengths, literally, to escape his great-grandmother.
And then, on the other side, there was Miss Finch’s grandfather. From all Jack had gathered, it seemed the old man would grasp at any sort of earl at all. He wouldn’t care if Jack had two heads or been born in a back slum as long as he held the title. He’d want to… What, be friends? Throw his granddaughter at Jack’s head, whether she wished it or not?
The two old frights would push at them from their different directions and wreck everything. Insofar as there was an everything—which was not far yet.
Jack rubbed his forehead, where a headache threatened. He supposed he was nothing like an earl and never would be, but he was one. With a house next to Winstead’s. Neighbors for good or ill. At some point, he would have to take up the position or continue to run. Neither choice appealed. He didn’t want to leave Miss Harriet Finch. He certainly didn’t want to stay and lose her. There must be a way out, but he couldn’t see it just now. Not for the life of him.
That day passed, and another. Jack wandered the landscape between Winstead Hall and his ancestral home, evading the guards, hoping to glimpse Miss Finch, racking his brain for a plan. He failed in all but the first effort, but his rambles did mean that he was nearby when a great bustle of activity was reported at Ferrington Hall. Samia and her mob said several carriages had arrived and a crowd of people had moved in. They assumed this was the earl finally making an appearance.
For a moment, Jack did too. Then he remembered it could not be, because he was the earl. Had an impostor shown up to claim the position? The idea almost made him laugh, despite the tangle such a development would create. But all humor drained away when it occurred to him that the visitor might well be Lady Wilton, come to hunt him down in person. She would recognize him, and all his choices would be taken away.
He had hidden spots from which to watch the house, and it was simple to observe the coming and going of new servants and delivery of supplies. The arrivals had clearly thrown the elderly caretakers into a frenzy. They buzzed about like bees disturbed in their hive.
Eventually, Jack saw the owners of the carriages as well—a sleek, young couple. The man had black hair, an athletic figure, and an annoyingly handsome face. Even to one who knew very little of fashionable dress, his clothes looked superior. He strolled about as if he owned the place, his manner imperious even from a distance.
His companion—wife, if their behavior was any gauge—was beautiful and even better dressed than Miss Finch. She had golden hair and the face of a renaissance angel. She also had a ringing laugh her husband seemed to delight in evoking. Jack liked that about them. Still, they were the sort of polished, sophisticated creatures who made him feel awkward and foreign. But at least they were not Lady Wilton.
Word filtered out into the neighborhood that the visitors were a duke and his duchess. Jack did wonder at first if this was some sort of ruse. But they’d brought so many servants, and the caretakers had accepted them without a murmur. On the second evening, he eeled his way through the overgrown garden and crouched below an open window to listen to their dinner conversation. In the midst of other talk, Lady Wilton was mentioned, as if she was the reason they were here. Jack felt a brush of annoyance. The old lady had no right to invite people to… He stopped, realizing that some part of him had begun to think of Ferrington Hall as his house. He frowned. They could hardly usurp what he refused to claim, but he resented it nonetheless.
He slid back into the shrubbery. Friends of his great-grandmother could not be good news. And they were likely to ruin his chances of seeing Harriet Finch any time soon. It seemed all circumstances conspired against him.
***
Harriet wondered if this was what it felt like to go mad. She was trapped in her mother’s small parlor for another afternoon. Any move to escape brought plaintive reproaches, grasping hands, and even tears—all far beyond any behavior Mama had exhibited before. Harriet was certain her mother did not know of her recent adventure. She would have spoken of it if she did. Spoken being a vast understatement. The thought of the scene that would be played out made Harriet wince. But Mama did seem to sense something—a change in the atmosphere—and she’d reacted at full bore. It felt like being wrapped in cotton wool until one was ready to choke.
Mama could not trap her mind, however. Harriet let her thoughts drift back to that night, when she’d danced in Jack the Rogue’s arms and whirled wildly around the fire. When she’d downed a mug of fiery cider without a moment’s worry about how it might look. She’d felt so free. The constraints of so-called polite society and the perils of losing one’s position in it had been…simply irrelevant, less than a distant memory. No one there had cared.
Of course, such things could not last. Harriet was well aware of that. She would never join a Travelers’ camp, even if they allowed it. Which they would not. But that giddy sense of freedom had made her wonder about other possibilities. She began to weave a vision of a different sort of life. Far from the haut ton, from the irritating demands of propriety and the dark undercurrents they concealed. In another country, perhaps. Where expectations were looser and opportunities wider.
Which brought her around to Jack the Rogue. He had made her think of these things, and he featured in the pictures she evoked. She felt again his hands at her waist, the elation as he lifted and spun her. She knew he’d so nearly kissed her in the garden at the end. So nearly! He’d behaved like a gentleman, not a rogue. Partly she was glad of that, and partly she regretted it. If she ever got another chance, she was going to kiss him.
At the moment, however, that possibility looked remote. Harriet ground her teeth in frustration. “I believe I will go out and take some air in the garden.”
“Oh no. It is so sultry. I expect it will rain at any moment.”
Harriet stared out the window. She didn’t see any sign of rain. Not that she cared. She would happily stand in a downpour if she could just get away for a little while. “I don’t think it will, Mama. I wouldn’t be long.”
“But I need you to help me sort my embroidery silks,” was the plaintive reply. “You have such a splendid eye for color. I wonder that you never do any fancywork yourself.”
Harriet did not say, Because inscribing tiny flowers onto a cloth is tedious beyond belief. She had once, long ago. Her mother had laughed then. She was unlikely to do so today.
The closed door of the parlor rattled, and Harriet’s grandfather burst in like a charging bull. Harriet’s mother started and yelped. She’d pricked her finger. A spot of red appeared on her embroidery.
Grandfather didn’t notice. His smile was the one he used when he’d put one over on a competitor, showing plenty of teeth. “The Duke and Duchess of Tereford have come to Ferrington Hall,” he declared.
“What?” Harriet stared up at him. “Why?”
“I have no notion, but I know you are well acquainted with them.” He rubbed his hands together. “We must call at once. Let my neighbors see that! They won’t know them. Sir Hal may wish to change his tune when he realizes I have such high-ranking friends.”
Harriet could not deny that she—and not her grandfather—had become friends with the Duchess of Tereford during the season in London. Or with Cecelia Vainsmede, as she’d been before she married. Harriet glanced at her mother. Mama had known Miss Vainsmede’s mother at school, and she’d written Cecelia asking for advice and aid with Harriet’s debut. This was back when Mama still showed some spirit and initiative. Cecelia had agreed to help apply a bit of town polish, and Harriet had found she liked her. She’d expected to disdain the leaders of society, the sort of people who had scorned her until she became an heiress and fawned over her once she had. And she had disliked many of them. Cecelia was one of the exceptions. Harriet didn’t know the duke nearly as well. But her grandfather had pushed in at one evening party, and she’d been forced to introduce him to them both.
“Get up, girl,” he said to her now. “Change your dress. You too, Linny. You look like a sloven.”
Harriet hated the way he spoke to her mother, with a dismissive nickname as if she was a dim child. This had grown far worse now that they were alone with him in his own house. She had to fight down icy rage before she could say, “You wish to go now?”
“Of course. The sooner, the better.”
“It’s not the right time of day for a call. We had better go tomorrow morning.”
“Now would be improper?” her grandfather asked.
“Yes,” Harriet lied. She would not descend on Ferrington Hall without preparation, of various sorts.
“Very well. Midmorning?”
He was actually deferring to her. Harriet agreed.
“I’ll see about something to take them. From the Indies, perhaps.” He nodded. “Yes. That will be a novelty.”
“Gifts aren’t necessary,” replied Harriet.
“Nonsense. We want to impress them.”
He would offer something ostentatious and most likely inappropriate. But there was no stopping him. He wielded his wealth like a bludgeon and then couldn’t understand when people resented the blow. He bustled out, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction once again.
“I hope the duke doesn’t snub him,” said her mother when he was gone. “He will be so angry.”
“Cecelia is my friend,” Harriet replied. She didn’t fear rejection from the Terefords. She did wonder why they were here in a house not their own. The duke certainly had plenty of properties they might visit.
Harriet dispatched a note to Ferrington Hall declaring their intention to call. It was cordially acknowledged, and this made her grandfather affable enough to placate her mother. Harriet managed to convince Mama to lie down for a bit before dinner, which gave her a sliver of time to slip out and make her way to the Travelers’ camp.
Her heart sang as she threaded her way through the middle of a dense thicket. It had become an odd habit, rushing along this path through the woods, anticipating the sight of one particular gentleman who affected her as no other ever had.
She found Jack the Rogue chopping wood not far from the camp’s central fire. He wore no coat and had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Muscles flexed in his arms as he raised the ax and let it fall. His skin was bronzed by the sun and sheened with perspiration. His movements were deft and precise. Not so long ago, Harriet had felt that strength sweeping her away in the dance. What would it be like to run her fingers over his heated skin? She found herself transfixed by the question.
He seemed to sense her gaze. After the next fall of the ax, he turned to look and spotted her. He stopped at once and smiled so sweetly that her heart contracted. “Miss Finch,” he said. His voice seemed to reach out and caress her.
Harriet felt her cheeks burn. If he had any idea what she’d been thinking… But, of course, he did not. “Ah.” She had to clear her throat. “You should stay away from the hall,” she said. “Some visitors have arrived.”
“I know.” He set the ax aside and moved toward her.
Of course he knew. He noticed everything. There had been no need for a warning. She’d wanted an excuse to see him.
“Friends of this Lady Wilton, I hear,” he added.
Where had he heard anything like that? Harriet was surprised he remembered the old lady’s name. “Not so much friends as relations,” she answered. “Lady Wilton is Tereford’s grandmother.”
“Tereford?”
“The Duke of Tereford. He and his wife, Cecelia, have come.”
“You know them?” His smile had gone. “Are they relations of the earl then?”
“Yes.” Harriet frowned. “The duke is some sort of cousin? But it is strange for them to be here. I don’t understand it.”
“Sent to look things over?”
“I can’t imagine Tereford allowing himself to be sent.”
“Him being a duke and all,” Jack said.
“Yes. I wonder if…” Harriet became conscious of a murmur rising in the camp.
Samia ran by with a group of her friends. “That man is coming,” she called.
“What man?” asked Jack.
“The one who moved into the house.” The little girl threw the answer over her shoulder as she ran on.
“Oh no.” Harriet turned. She could see a stir of movement approaching. “I must go.” She stepped toward the path back. “He mustn’t see me.”
“He will if you go that way,” said Jack. His face had gone wooden.
There was a stretch of empty field between her and the woods. “I can’t be caught here. The duke will remark on it, and if he tells my grandfather…”
Jack the Rogue looked around. Shielding her from the approaching hubbub, he herded her toward a caravan near the woodpile and opened the door. “Get in,” he said.
“I couldn’t intrude,” Harriet began.
“It’s that or be seen,” he said. “Gina won’t mind.”
Harriet hesitated one moment more, then stepped up and in. Jack shut the door behind her, and she was enclosed in a marvel of neat, wooden drawers and compartments, from sizable to tiny. There was a little stove on a metal base, unlit right now, and a bed at the front covered in a gorgeously colorful cloth. Small windows around a sort of flat turret at the top were propped open, letting her hear but not see the outside.
***
Jack moved back toward the woodpile as he watched the disturbance come nearer. He strongly resented the appearance of this duke, who made Miss Finch ashamed to be seen with him. He wanted no connections of Lady Wilton barging in with their high-nosed opinions and possibly exposing his identity before he could do so on his own terms. He picked up the ax—not as a threat but as a potential distraction. He had to put this intruder off.
A loose circle of male Travelers surrounded the visitor, who was the polished man Jack had observed at Ferrington Hall. The fellow—the duke—looked like a peacock among the pigeons, and he did not seem the least intimidated by the clear lack of welcome. Jack began chopping wood again, hoping he and his watchful entourage would walk on by.
Of course, the man stopped, as if he had some malign instinct. Jack could feel his judgmental gaze. Doggedly, he kept working.
“That looks like hot work,” said this duke.
As if he had ever done a day’s labor in his life. A sharp current of annoyance ran through Jack. He hated being pushed. Letting the ax blade drop, he wiped his forehead with one arm and gazed at this polished product of Lady Wilton’s precious society. The duke looked primed for disdain. Rebelliously, Jack put on the thickest accent he could produce, taking cues from his mother and these people he’d been living among. “Na so vairy bad,” he answered. “Ah’m used to it.” As you are not, he didn’t add. He could see amusement gleaming in the eyes of the Travelers at his rustic speech, though he didn’t think a stranger would notice.
“Indeed.” The duke looked around at his escorts. “Have you seen anyone about Ferrington Hall? Before we arrived, I mean.”
He received no answers. Jack shrugged, feigning blank incomprehension.
“No?”
Jack caught an ironic glint in the man’s piercing blue eyes. This duke might be a pompous ass, but he wasn’t gullible.
“I understand you have permission to camp here,” he went on. “From the Earl of Ferrington.”
A murmur answered him. Many of the Travelers had gathered in a wider circle. They hoped to chase off the visitor with silent hostility, as was their practice. Jack saw no sign this was succeeding. “Best ask Mistress Elena,” he said. “She’s got the letter and all.”
“I should be interested to see it,” answered the duke.
“Only she’s gone off.” Jack didn’t know where she actually was, but he was certain word would spread from the outer edges of the circle and she’d be out of the way when looked for.
“Off? Like spoiled cream?”
The damned fellow thought he could amuse himself at their expense. Jack wished for an excuse to punch him. But instead, he said, “Picking of ’erbs in the forest, belike.” Where had he heard the word belike? He had no idea or whether it fit with the accent he’d cobbled together. It sounded idiotic from his lips. In that moment, Jack remembered Miss Finch was overhearing his performance as a dim-witted yokel. How had he forgotten? His cheeks heated with mortification.
“Taking this letter along with her?” asked the duke. He looked entertained. This man was dangerous.
“Don’t do to leave it lying about,” muttered Jack.
“Of course. One never knows when someone might…inquire.”
Jack began to have a bad feeling about the situation. Why was this duke addressing him rather than some of the others? What had Lady Wilton told him?
“Perhaps you would tell her that I wish to see it?” the intruder added. “I am Tereford, by the way.”
“Tereford,” Jack repeated. Were dukes above normal names? And did the man think this label would tell the Travelers anything? He couldn’t stop himself. “My Lord Tereford, would that be?”
“Not necessarily,” the duke said. “And you are?”
“Calls me Jack the Rogue, they does.” He heard a sound from the caravan, to go with the bitten-off grins from the Travelers. The word debacle floated into his brain.
“Does…they?” The fellow was smiling, damn him. “They appear to have vivid imaginations.”
His gaze was exceedingly sharp. Jack realized he should have pretended to be mute. He certainly should have resisted that last remark. Too late now. He was groping for a way to save the situation when the duke turned away. “Don’t forget to give Mistress Elena my message,” he said over his shoulder.
Jack nodded. Not subserviently, he was aware. It was the best he could manage.
He waited. The duke strolled out of sight. When one of the Travelers signaled from the edge of camp that he had really gone, Jack opened the caravan door.
Miss Finch surged out. “What in the world were you playing at?” she demanded. “You sounded like one of the clowns from Shakespeare. Done by a dreadful actor.”
“Misdirection,” he muttered.
“From what to what?” She looked at the lowering sun. “Oh no, I shall be late.” She turned and ran for the path home. For once, Jack did not go with her.
***
When Harriet rushed into her bedchamber twenty minutes later, she nearly ran into Slade, who stood just inside the door. The thin, upright abigail did not shift as Harriet lurched to the side to avoid a collision. Only her blue eyes moved, cataloging her charge’s disheveled state. Harriet was breathless. A grasping branch had caught her bonnet and pulled it awry, along with a spray of red curls. Her shoes were dusty. She’d gone out so quickly that she’d forgotten her gloves. She could see Slade deploring that lapse.
“I informed your mother, when she came to inquire, that you were in the garden,” the woman said. “I believe she went out to look for you. She was most distressed when you could not be found.”
“Did she tell Grandfather?” burst out before Harriet could stop it.
“No. Miss Dorn persuaded her that she must have missed you in the shrubbery.”
That was a relief. Mama’s maid was also a new addition, and Harriet had no reason to count on her, though she did seem eager to soothe Mama’s anxiety. “I was…I was…” Harriet hadn’t prepared a tale for the very superior lady’s maid her grandfather had hired to dress her.
“You are expected at dinner,” the woman added. “Which is in ten minutes.”
Slade looked just as she always did, blandly professional. Harriet untied the ribbons of her bonnet, pulled it off, and threw it on the bed, where one of her evening dresses was laid out and ready. A pair of matching shoes sat beneath it, lined up in Slade’s precise way. The necklace and earrings that completed the ensemble waited on the dressing table beside the hairbrush. The neatness seemed like a reprimand. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” Harriet said. It was very nearly true. She had disobeyed her grandfather’s orders, but she hadn’t promised to obey him.
The abigail made no reply. She simply moved forward to unfasten the buttons down the back of Harriet’s gown, working deftly and quickly. When the garment was off, she indicated the basin of hot water on the washstand. Harriet made use of it before slipping into the evening dress and shoes. She sat so Slade could deal with her hair, fastening the ornaments as the woman worked.
“Mr. Winstead asked me to watch you and report on your conduct,” Slade said.
Harriet started to turn. The comb caught painfully in her hair. “What?”
“Please do not move.” Slade eased her head back toward the mirror and inserted the last few hairpins. “I made no reply. I believe he took this for agreement.”
“He is…” Harriet was too angry to find the words.
“It was not,” the abigail continued. “I do not consider spying to be part of my responsibilities. Should he inquire, I shall say I have noticed nothing unusual.”
“Thank you,” Harriet began.
“However.” Slade examined Harriet’s reflection, nodded her satisfaction with her work, and stepped back. “One’s definition of usual can only be stretched so far,” she finished.
“I understand you,” said Harriet. She couldn’t expect Slade to take risks for her. Why should she? Theirs was not a family with long-time retainers. Harriet and her mother had not been able to afford much help at all until recently. And her grandfather treated his staff like employees, not part of the family. “I was walking in the woodland, and…”
“You had best go down,” Slade interrupted, with the air of one who didn’t really want to know. “Mrs. Finch remains quite anxious to find you.”
“Yes.” Mama’s only mood was fearful these days. Harriet walked slowly downstairs, taking calming breaths, wrestling with her anger at her grandfather, tamping it down so she could keep her temper through the meal.
Fortunately, her grandfather was in a jovial mood, full of his plans to call on the duke, and he required little in the way of responses to his monologue. His good mood lasted into the following morning when they set off in his carriage to call at Ferrington Hall. Harriet made no comment about the small casket he held in his lap. The Terefords would find it odd to be brought a gift by a man they’d barely met, particularly one that glittered with what seemed to be jewels. But they would be polite.
It was strange to drive up to the house openly after she’d lurked about it and peered inside. The place was greatly improved already. The front garden had been tidied, and the windows shone. They were admitted by an elegant manservant and taken to the largest reception room. Along the way, Harriet saw the covers had come off the furniture and polish had been liberally applied. Cecelia must have found staff in the neighborhood to augment those she’d brought. The air smelled of beeswax and lemon.
The duke and duchess rose to greet them as they entered, as handsome and fashionable a couple as one could well imagine. Harriet was glad to see her friend Cecelia looking happy.
Her grandfather surged ahead, holding out his gift like an offering. “Thought you might like to have this,” he said. “It’s Arabian. I’ve forgotten the name of the place. One of my ships brought it back in ninety-eight.” He thrust it at the duke.
Tereford showed fleeting surprise, but he took the little casket. “Ah, thank you, Mr. Winstead.”
“How interesting,” said Cecelia. “Very beautiful work.”
“Worth a good few hundreds,” replied Harriet’s grandfather, mortifyingly. “I had it looked over, and those jewels are real. My agent paid next to nothing for it, of course.”
“Ah,” said the duke again.
His wife took the item from him and set it on the mantel above the fireplace. “How kind of you to think of us, Mr. Winstead.” She did not look at Harriet or show any sign of disapproval, because she was a kind friend.
They sat down. Refreshments were brought. The duke civilly inquired about Mr. Winstead’s health and current activities, and Harriet’s grandfather happily held forth.
“You must be wondering why we’ve come here,” Cecelia said from her place at Harriet’s side.
Harriet nodded.
“Lady Wilton nagged until we agreed. Perhaps you’ve heard there has been some sign of her great-grandson the earl?”
“Sign?” asked Harriet, though she was afraid she knew what her friend meant.
“He sent a letter, giving a group of Travelers permission to camp on the estate,” Cecelia answered. “The Rileys—the caretakers here—informed Lady Wilton at once.”
Fortunately, she had a soft voice. Harriet glanced at her grandfather. He hadn’t heard the word Travelers, which would certainly provoke a tirade.
“It was very odd, of course,” her friend added. “No one seems to know where the letter originated. Or how he might have known to send it.”
Harriet nodded again, feeling more and more uneasy. Jack had sworn he hadn’t written that letter, but she hadn’t quite been able to believe him.
“So we’ve come up to investigate.” Cecelia smiled at her and waited.
After a moment, Harriet realized Cecelia expected her to react to that last word. Harriet and her school friends prided themselves on solving mysteries. She ought to be eager to help. She would have been, if not for her worry over Jack the Rogue, who had behaved so very strangely in his encounter with the duke. Harriet had the sense of events running away with her. “What are you going to do?” she managed.
“We will begin with first principles,” said Cecelia with a smile.
Harriet remembered saying something similar in easier times.
“Lady Wilton gave James a note the earl wrote to her,” continued the duchess. “We will compare it to the letter sent to the magistrate to see if the handwriting looks the same. James means to ride over tomorrow and procure the letter.”
“Oh. That’s…a good idea.”
Cecelia was obviously disappointed in her reaction. She began to look puzzled. “We also have a description of the earl. But Lady Wilton was not able to supply much detail. Anyone might have dark hair and eyes and a ‘commonplace face.’ It’s not as if he has a scar or some other distinguishing mark.”
Harriet nodded, her mind filled with the idea that she must tell Jack about this plan. If he had written that letter, this was bound to catch him. He’d given her his word, but…he was a rogue. Rogues played confidence tricks.
“Are you all right, Harriet?” asked Cecelia. “I thought you would be pleased with our cleverness. And have all sorts of suggestions of your own.”
“I…ah… Of course I am.” She was not behaving like herself. Or perhaps she was. She was simply less focused on the mystery to be solved than on a…a friend to be saved. She searched for words.
“Travelers,” exploded her grandfather. Harriet’s mother shrank back in her chair and looked even more cowed than she had for the entire visit. “Filthy, thieving rabble!”
Harriet made a small gesture, encompassing the scene—her grandfather’s intemperate rage, Mama’s fear, the constant, dreadful disharmony of their household. Cecelia looked, assimilated, and seemed to accept this as an excuse for Harriet’s responses.
“I tell you what we should do,” her grandfather continued. “Gather some men and chase them off.” He leaned forward, fixing the duke with a fierce stare.
Her grandfather knew he didn’t have the authority to carry this off on his own, Harriet realized. If the duke joined him, however, objections would be muted.
“I understood they had permission from the landowner,” Tereford said.
The older man brushed this aside. “Once they’re gone, everyone will be glad. An apology is always easier than permission.” He smiled. He meant to be ingratiating, Harriet thought, but he only managed to look predatory.
“I think the matter must be left to the local magistrate,” said the duke.
“That fool! You cannot side with him.”
This was a step too far. The duke raised one black eyebrow. His blue eyes grew cold. “I beg your pardon?”
Her grandfather’s face went even redder. Harriet’s mother looked terrified. An intemperate insult, followed by a definitive setdown, loomed. And after that, disaster. Harriet sprang up. “We should be going,” she said.
Cecelia popped up at her side. “It was so kind of you to call.”
“It was delightful to see you again.”
“Indeed, I am glad we are to be temporary neighbors.”
“Are you ready, Mama?” asked Harriet. She tried to bring her mother to her feet by sheer mental influence. Unfortunately, Mama cowered backward, as if she hoped for invisibility.
Cecelia moved to take her hand. “It was so pleasant to see you, Mrs. Finch.”
Harriet saw her practically drag Mama up from the sofa.
The duke rose as well. He had begun to look amused rather than haughty, which was good.
“You have someone coming up from London to see you, don’t you, Grandpapa?” Harriet asked.
The old man glowered at her. “He can wait.”
“You said it was very important business, I believe.” He hadn’t, but he liked all his affairs to be treated so. Harriet made herself smile at him, though it felt more like gritting her teeth.
“As if you understood anything about it,” he growled. But he stood. Perhaps it had penetrated that he didn’t want to offend the one duke he’d managed to meet.
“We will see you again soon, I hope,” said Harriet to the Terefords. She herded her family toward the door.
“Perhaps your mother will spare you to me one afternoon,” answered Cecelia. “I would enjoy your company.”
Harriet nodded. She would be glad to spend time with her friend. And then she realized Cecelia gave her a perfect excuse to visit Ferrington Hall’s environs any time she liked. She would make certain those visits included Jack, she vowed as they went out to the carriage.
***
Left alone in the reception room, the Duke and Duchess of Tereford sat down side by side on an aged sofa. He put an arm around her. She smiled up at him. “Why did I allow my grandmother to harass us into coming here?” wondered the duke. “I really cannot remember.”
“Lady Wilton can be quite persuasive,” said his wife.
“No, she cannot. Demanding, dictatorial, even threatening, yes. But she does not try to persuade. And I’ve never liked being ordered about.”
“You would rather be cajoled,” she suggested.
He laughed down at her, his deep-blue eyes warm with affection. “As if you have ever done so.”
“I have! Dozens of times.”
“Name one.”
The duchess considered. “When you decided to set up a racing stable.”
Tereford, often called the handsomest man in London, grew reminiscent. “You presented me with a chart of likely costs and ‘inevitable’ losses. The thing covered half the dining table and was as complex as a plan of attack for Waterloo.”
His wife nodded. “What a lot of work it was.”
“You call that cajoling?”
“One can cajole with mathematics,” she replied.
“I don’t think one can, really, Cecelia.” He shook his head. “Or perhaps only you can. You were all of thirteen, I suppose. Solemn as a lowly church bishop.”
“Fortunately, for your sake. If your affairs had been left to you and Papa…”
“We would have murdered each other, I suppose. No, I would have murdered him and been hanged for killing my trustee.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I think that is what you said the day you marched into your father’s library and ordered us to stop arguing. A small, blond Valkyrie of nine.” He gazed at her fondly.
She giggled. “Papa was so grateful.”
“I was, too, eventually.”
“After a good number of years,” she replied.
“I admit I was slow to recognize your genius. But I am fully appreciative now.” He punctuated this assurance with a kiss.
She returned it with equal enthusiasm, and conversation lapsed for a delightful interval.
“One of the servants may come in,” the duchess said then, catching a hairpin as it fell from her golden locks.
“They must be accustomed to our scandalous behavior by this time.”
“Not the new ones.”
“Who are not our employees, strictly speaking, Cecelia. They belong to the elusive earl. Or will do so when he turns up and takes the reins.” The duke sighed. “Why did we leave London?”
“We decided we should make the rounds of all the ducal properties and put them in order while the workmen restore the London house.”
“We? That is not precisely the way I remember it. Was there cajoling involved?”
She smiled at him. As always, the effect was glorious. “You agreed with me.”
“As I inevitably do. But I must point out that Ferrington Hall is not a ducal property and is quite out of the way on that round.”
“It is. Lady Wilton’s nagging grew insupportable. But now that we are here, I’m glad.”
“Indeed?” The duke looked mystified.
“There’s something odd about Harriet.”
“She seemed much the same to me.”
The duchess shook her head. “No, she’s…softer and…brighter. But at the same time, wound very tight. Something has happened to her.”
“Surely this is just fantasy? Miss Finch appeared cool and collected, as usual.”
“You don’t know her as well as I do.”
“True.”
“Living with her grandfather must be hard,” the duchess said.
Her husband conceded this with a shrug.
“I shall find out.” She cocked her head. “You will enjoy finding Ferrington,” she added, as if offering a rare treat.
The duke acknowledged her teasing with a smile. “If I do. I have a great deal of sympathy for the fellow. I’d hide from Grandmama if I could.”
“She said she wouldn’t come here.”
“We are off at once if she does.”
“Agreed.” She nestled close and raised her face for another kiss to seal their pact.